1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Freebies, dear,” drawled Somé. “Just good business. Couple of customized
hoodies and some accessories. Celebrity endorsements never hurt.”
“Did he ever wear the stuff?”
“I don’t know,” said Somé in a more subdued tone. “I had other things to
worry about the next day.”
“I’ve seen YouTube footage of him wearing a hoodie with studs on it, like
that,” said Strike, pointing at Somé’s chest. “Making a fist.”
“Yeah, that was one of them. Someone must’ve sent the stuff on to him. One
had a fist, one had a handgun, and some of his lyrics on the backs.”
“Did Lula talk to you about Deeby Macc coming to stay in the flat
downstairs?”
“Oh yeah. She wasn’t nearly excited enough. I kept saying to her, babes, if
he’d written three tracks about me I’d be waiting behind the front door naked
when he got in.” Somé blew smoke in two long streams from his nostrils, looking
sideways at Strike. “I like ’em big and rough,” he said. “But Cuckoo didn’t. Well,
look what she hooked up with. I kept telling her, you’re the one making all this
fucking song-and-dance about your roots; find yourself a nice black boy and
settle down. Deeby would’ve been fucking perfect; why not?
“Last season’s show, I had her walking down the catwalk to Deeby’s
‘Butterface Girl.’ ‘Bitch you ain’t all that, get a mirror that don’ fool ya, Give it
up an’ tone it down, girl, ’cause you ain’t no fuckin’ Lula.’ Duffield hated it.”
Somé smoked for a moment in silence, his eyes on the wall of photographs.
Strike asked:
“Where do you live? Around here?” though he knew the answer.
“No, I’m in Charles Street, in Kensington,” said Somé. “Moved there last year.
It’s a long fucking way from Hackney, I can tell you, but it was getting silly, I
had to leave. Too much hassle. I grew up in Hackney,” he explained, “back when
I was plain old Kevin Owusu. I changed my name when I left home. Like you.”
“I was never Rokeby,” said Strike, flicking over a page in his notebook. “My
parents weren’t married.”
“We all know that, dear,” said Somé, with another flash of malice. “I dressed
your old man for a Rolling Stone shoot last year: skinny suit and broken bowler.
D’you see him much?”
“No,” said Strike.